of a sale.’
‘It’s going to be like old times this weekend,’ Laura said. ‘The way it was when I was studying at the Sorbonne, and you’d just arrived here with a husband and a baby. We really had a ball in those days, didn’t we?’
Claire laughed. ‘Yes, we did. And some baby she is today! Fourteen going on forty, taller than both of us and into make-up, clothes and boys. You’ll get a shock when you see her, Laura, she’s really sprung up in the last couple of months.’
Laura nodded, settled back against the chair and took a sip of her champagne.
The two women were sitting in Laura’s room at the hotel, lingering over their drinks before dinner. In the half hour they had spent greeting each other effusively and discussing the Renoir, the weather had turned nasty. By the time they had been ready to go to Benoît, one of their favourite bistros, it was snowing hard and, according to the doorman, an icy wind had blown up. And so they had agreed it would be much wiser to stay at the hotel and have room service.
‘What do you feel like eating?’ Laura now asked, picking up the menu on the coffee table. ‘I’m going to have anything with their pommes frites. They make the best, as you well know.’ She grinned. ‘If I eat too many meals here I’m going to start putting on weight. I just can’t resist them.’
‘I know what you mean. I’m going to have grilled sole and pommes frites, too.’
‘That’s what I’ll have. Want anything first, Claire?’
‘Just a green salad. Hercule thinks I look like a waif, far too thin. What do you think? I don’t, do I?’
‘You’re a bit thinner than you usually are, but you look great, Claire, honestly, and very chic. I love you in deep purple. It sets off your red hair.’
‘Thanks. I must admit, I have been dieting a bit more strenuously to fit into my dress for Hercule’s New Year’s Eve party.’ She shrugged. ‘He gave me a bit of a lecture on the way from the studio. About my weight, I mean.’
‘He fusses about you, I know that. But then, he loves you.’
Claire looked at her. ‘Like a father, yes, I realize that.’
‘Not like a father, no. Like a lover, or rather, a potential lover, potential husband.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ Claire exclaimed, looking askance. ‘Hercule and me. Don’t be so silly.’
‘I’m not being silly. I’ve always known he has…well…a thing about you, Claire. It’s written all over his face. Even Doug has mentioned it to me and more than once.’
‘So I’m the last to know, huh?’ Claire shook her head vehemently. ‘I love him, as a person. He’s been wonderful to me always, my best friend in Paris…but I’m not interested in him…romantically.’
‘Because he’s too old, you mean?’ Laura probed.
‘No, age doesn’t matter, and in any case he’s much younger than a lot of people I know in their thirties, even though he’s seventy-six. I’m just not interested in men anymore. I’ve told you that for years now. Shall we order dinner?’
‘Yes, let’s, and I’m going to have another champagne. What about you? Another martini?’
‘God, no! I’ll be drunk. One’s enough for me.’
Laura went to the phone, dialled room service, and gave their order. Then she went on carefully, ‘Look, just because you had one bad experience doesn’t mean you’ve got to close up shop, close your heart to another man. Okay, so you’re not interested in Hercule, but maybe there’s somebody else out there who’s just right for you, Claire, if only you’d give yourself half a chance –’
‘No!’ Claire cried softly but emphatically. ‘I’m not interested. Marriage is a battlefield, and I have the scars to prove it. I won the war by leaving the battlefield, and I’ve no intention of putting myself in the line of fire ever again.’ She laughed hollowly. ‘Being in harm’s way is being no place…no place at all.’
‘Marriage doesn’t have to be a battleground,’ Laura argued. ‘Mine isn’t.’
‘You’ve been luckier than most, Laura. You met Doug and fell in love, and somehow, for you, it all went smoothly. No arguments and fights, no big differences of opinion. The two of you perfectly in sync, leading nice, orderly, happy lives together.’
‘You make it sound awfully dull!’ Laura exclaimed. ‘Doug’s not all that easy to live with, you know he isn’t. He’s pernickety, a perfectionist, and he can be very opinionated. And he’s a nag! God, he never stops nagging about my having a baby –’ Laura broke off and pursed her lips, shook her head. ‘That sounds disloyal,’ she finished lamely, looking chagrined. She sat back against the sofa.
‘I know he nags you about having a child, but it could be his fault you don’t get pregnant. Why does he blame you?’
‘I don’t know, but he does. At least, that’s the way it seems to me. We’ve both been tested again, and there’s nothing wrong with either of us, seemingly. But pregnant I’m not.’
‘Do you want a baby?’ Claire asked, looking at Laura intently.
‘Yes, I do, I’ve always wanted a child. But I’m only thirty-one, so there’s time. It’s not as if I’m ancient, on my last legs.’
‘Perhaps Doug’s just too uptight about this, Laura,’ Claire suggested quietly, her face reflective. ‘That often happens. A couple don’t make a baby, and they get overanxious and that works against them.’
‘I’m not overanxious.’
‘No, but perhaps Doug is, darling.’
‘Maybe he is. He’s certainly highly strung these days.’
‘He’s going to have to learn to relax.’
Laura laughed. ‘Tell that to the marines. Relax. My God, he’s a bundle of nerves, and always on the go, rushing hither and yon, as Grandma Megan says. She told me recently that Doug doesn’t stay still long enough to make a baby.’
Claire burst out laughing. ‘Good old Grandma Megan! I must admit, I do miss her pithiness, and her forthrightness. She comes out with some marvellous lines.’
‘She told me the other day that her great age gives her licence to say anything she wants. And to anybody, too.’
‘Old people are a bit like that. I guess they get to the stage where they don’t care anymore. And their bluntness can be amusing.’ She punched Laura’s arm lightly. ‘Hey, do you remember what we used to say when we were growing up? That when we were old ladies and had finished with men and all that nonsense, we’d live together on the French Riviera and sit on the beach wearing large picture hats and caftans, having our toenails painted purple by beautiful young gigolos.’
